


A World Away

by estelraca



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-02 23:18:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2829629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/pseuds/estelraca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre is given a chance to work at CERN after finally finishing (surviving to finish) his post-doc.  The only problem is that CERN is in Switzerland, and for this life, at least, Courfeyrac and the rest of the Amis are situated in America.  Reincarnation AU, written for the Les Miserables Holiday Exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A World Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheRussianKat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRussianKat/gifts).



> This was written for TheRussianKat, who wanted to see Combeferre/Courfeyrac where one is given the job of a lifetime but very far away from the other. I hope that it's enjoyable!

_A World Away_

"Thank you. Yes. I understand." Combeferre pauses, his eyes glazed. "One week. Thank you. _Merci_. I'll be in touch."

Enjolras pauses on his latest trek from his room to the kitchen, where he is hopefully not utterly destroying the lasagna that is supposed to feed them tonight. Combeferre had prepared the dish yesterday; all Enjolras has had to do, at Combeferre's unspoken insistence, is adjust the heat on the oven and put the lasagna in.

Combeferre stands, and the dozen flash cards that he had used to write messages to coerce Enjolras into starting dinner fall from his lap to the floor. He blinks down at them, and then stands stock-still, watching the ground as though it holds the secrets to the universe.

"Combeferre?" Enjolras keeps his voice quiet, understanding that whatever the phone conversation was about, it has clearly distressed his friend. "Is everything all right? What was that about?"

"That..." Combeferre draws a deep breath, bringing his head up as he does, in an almost frightening imitation of a blow-up doll. "That was CERN. They've accepted my application. I would be on a six-month probationary period to start, but... I could work—study- _experiment_ at CERN."

Enjolras tries desperately to remember which of the organizations Combeferre has been applying to over the last few months has those initials... and then realizes, in a flash, why Combeferre threw in the French word at the end of the conversation. "That's the one in Europe. The particle physics lab."

"They're all related to particle physics, Enjolras, in one way or another." There's a note of wry amusement to Combeferre's voice. He has spent years—lifetimes, possibly, but their memories of the times _before_ are too fragmented to make them meaningful in more than the briefest flashes—trying to explain to Enjolras why particle physics is a fascinating and important field. Enjolras has happily listened, accepting all Combeferre's arguments, before promptly purging all the mathematics and quantum confusion from his memory. He has nothing but respect for Combeferre and his work, but absolutely no desire to engage in it himself. "That's what all my work has been on so far. That's what my resume is on."

"I thought there was a great deal of mathematics involved in that resume of yours."

"There is. Math is the language that we use to explain the universe, after all, and—" Combeferre cuts himself off, clearly recognizing that now is not the time to launch into a polemic, especially since Enjolras won't argue with him when he's fairly certain Combeferre is right. "And I just got accepted at _CERN_. If I want it."

"Congratulations." Enjolras smiles at his friend, though the smile fades as Combeferre continues to stare off into the distance with a stricken expression. "Unless... you're upset about it?"

"I'm not... I'm surprised. I'm honored. I didn't think I had a shot of getting an offer from them—I'm American, at least this time, and though I've done good work, gotten a few publications... I mainly applied to them because Courfeyrac insisted I wasn't thinking big enough and it was a good way to shut him up. But they _accepted_. They'd give me a chance..." Combeferre sighs, raising a hand to his forehead and rubbing vigorously. "But it would mean moving to Europe. To Switzerland... or France, depending on what side of the border I want to be on and who will give me the least trouble with travel. Enjolras, I can't!"

This time it is Enjolras' turn to pause, to consider carefully before speaking. He has known that change will be coming for them—change _always_ comes for them, to them, attracted to them like a moth to a flame (unless change is the flame and they are the moths, battering themselves against the light despite scorched and bruised wings). Given what they do politically, what flashes they have of memories from _before_ , the fact that Combeferre has completed two post-doctorates and is looking for a more permanent position to work and study from had seemed like barely a blip on the radar.

But if Combeferre goes to Europe...

"Do you want to go?" Enjolras asks the question carefully, trying not to betray with his own inflections how horrible a thought it is to be separated from his friend. "Would it be good for you?"

"It would be wonderful for my scientific career. With the work I've been doing, having access to a collider is going to be desperately important. And I just love the history and the feel of the place—you remember I visited once, back when we were both in undergrad? It's one of the first endeavors the majority of Europe managed to work on together, and it's _wonderful_ , and I could find out so much..." Combeferre trails off, closing his eyes. "But it's over there. And you're over here. Our work—our real work—is over here this time."

"Don't say it like that." Enjolras makes the admonishment quietly, closing the distance between himself and his dearest friend, laying a hand gently on Combeferre's shoulder. "The work you do is important. I don't understand it very well, despite your valiant endeavors to explain it, but it's _important_. Finding out how the universe works... that's not a light or petty goal, to be cast aside as less than, as other, as deficient in meaning."

"It is when compared to human suffering." Combeferre opens his eyes again, his expression grave. The barest hint of a French accent touches his voice, a sign that he is rifling through what fragments of memory he's collected from _before_ over the years. "It is when compared to all that we're fighting for—the elevation of man, the alleviation of pain."

"We've had this argument before, old friend." Enjolras tightens his hold on Combeferre's shoulder, echoes of voices ringing through his mind. Old speeches, old times, bloody times, and that isn't what he needs right now. "In _this_ life, and the reasons I gave you before are just as true now as they were then. People need to understand their world to love it—to _help_ it. Science gives men wonders and joy, and yes, it is important that we fight for their rights, and yes, it is important to help in the _now_ rather than blinding our eyes to current suffering in service to some intangible future. But science has given us wonders—the stars, the depths of the ocean, other planets. The technology you considered studying when you debated being a doctor versus following your passion."

"The Internet." Combeferre smiles, though there is still strain in the tension around his eyes. "CERN claims at least partial credit for the creation of the Internet, though you know how tangled that history is."

"The Internet. Which we can use to ensure that we don't lose touch." Enjolras finds himself pausing again, the idea of losing touch with Combeferre an almost physical blow, a cold dose of ice water to his very core. "And it's not like America has a monopoly on social problems. I'm sure you will find a more personal calling there, as well."

"I'm fairly certain if I go I'm going to be so lost in my work I'll need someone else to remind me to eat and sleep and all those other important things." Combeferre chews on his lip. "Though... maybe not. Maybe not now. A few arrests for protesting and it becomes hard to forget that there is a need to prove the humanity of some to the blind uncaring of others."

Enjolras is glad that Combeferre keeps the conversation grounded in the now, in what they have done in _this_ life, rather than in dreams of the past that have woken both of them from unsound sleep. "You aren't capable of ignoring suffering. But if you can also given us transporters or phasers—"

"I am never watching Star Trek with you again, you're never going to let me live that down—"

"Or other things that will have a dramatic impact on all of humanity." This time it is Enjolras' turn to smile, his memory of watching old science fiction shows with his two roommates a shining moment of joy. "Then do it, Combeferre. I will call you several times a week, but I will survive without you."

"You had better." There is a dark warning to Combeferre's voice, a need in the hand that suddenly grips Enjolras' upper arm tightly. Perhaps talk of death was foolish. "Though... it's not that bad right now. Not yet. Not here."

"Not here. We're making progress. Slowly and painfully, but making progress." Maybe this time will be the life when they are not asked to fight. Maybe this time they will live to see other dreams come true—as this dream of Combeferre's, this chance to chase the basic building blocks of reality, is coming true. "So go, if you want to."

"It's not that easy." Combeferre sighs again. "It's not just you or our goals or even the Amis that I need to think about—though I do need to think about them, _am_ thinking about them."

"Perhaps too much, given how stressed you look."

"It's Courfeyrac."

Combeferre raises his eyes to meet Enjolras', and there is more pain and uncertainty in his gaze than Enjolras has seen in a long, long time.

"I can't go to CERN, Enjolras." Combeferre shakes his head. "I can't do that to Courfeyrac."

Ah, now that is a more difficult question to answer, a harder thread for Enjolras to unravel. What would Courfeyrac want? For his boyfriend to be happy, of course, but if that happiness meant crossing an ocean... if that happiness meant leaving the world they have known and returning to a land of ghosts...

Combeferre sniffs, his eyes narrowing. "Enjolras... did you make sure the oven was empty before you put in the lasagna?"

Enjolras sniffs as well, grimacing as the faint smell of smoke touches his nose. "No. Is that something that you're supposed to do?"

Combeferre's exasperated sigh is at least something that Enjolras has a clear answer for, and they race each other to the kitchen, where plumes of smoke are just starting to creep out of the stove.

Hopefully when Courfeyrac returns home he will be able to help Combeferre answer his more pressing questions.

XXX

Courfeyrac comes home to the smell of smoke and cartons of Chinese food on the kitchen table. It takes only a single look at Enjolras' sheepish expression to confirm his suspicions. "All right, who thought it was a good idea to let Enjolras cook?"

"I didn't want to do it!" Enjolras' protestation is immediate, his tone almost pleading. "He insisted."

"Enjolras, you had to _turn on the over_ and _put in the lasagna_. That was _it_." Combeferre glares at his friend as he takes plates down from the cupboard, setting the table.

"I am anathema to cooking. We all know that. Remember when Courfeyrac put up signs that specifically said 'No Enjolrai Allowed' on the kitchen at our old place?" Enjolras gestures to the kitchen entrance before turning his injured glare on Courfeyrac. "And I still maintain you should not pluralize my name like that."

"The signs served their purpose, didn't they?" Courfeyrac smiles cheerfully as he takes one of the plates and begins heaping food onto it. "And it's been a while since we ate out. Combeferre's been spoiling us. Though I am sorry about your lasagna, love. It looked absolutely scrumptuous."

"Not once the burning baking powder exploded all over it." Combeferre sighs, serving himself before settling down at the table. There is a tension to his movements, a downcast gloom to his gaze, that seems a bit too much even for a ruined lasagna.

Something else must have happened—something that would make Combeferre break their unspoken rule and trust the kitchen to Enjolras. Given Combeferre, the most likely answer is obvious. "Did something come up at work that made it necessary to entrust our dinner to our fearless leader?"

Combeferre freezes, a spoonful of rice halfway to his mouth. He slowly sets the fork down, studying his plate as he does, an expression almost like nausea dancing across his face.

Courfeyrac glances at Enjolras, but Enjolras is studying Combeferre with a concerned expression, too. Turning back to Combeferre, Courfeyrac lowers his voice, speaking gently. "Did something happen? With the Amis or your family? Is everyone all right?"

"Huh?" Combeferre raises his eyes and shakes his head. "No, everyone's fine. I just... I got a job offer from CERN."

The last part of the sentence comes out in a rush, syllables crashing against each other so that they're difficult to parse apart. Once he does, though, Courfeyrac gives a whoop of joy. "You _did_? That's _awesome_ , Combeferre, congrat—"

And then he realizes exactly what that means, and the congratulations die in his throat.

He can't allow that to happen, though. He can't allow what will be his own problems to interfere in what should be a joyous time for Combeferre. Taking a deep breath, he draws up a genuine smile, remembering all the times Combeferre has lulled him to sleep by speaking at length about what he hopes to learn and discover in the future. "Congratulations, Combeferre. That's absolutely fantastic. I'm sure that you'll have a grand time there."

"I'm not sure I'm going." Combeferre sets down his fork. "I... don't want to do that to you, Courfeyrac."

"Do what? Become a successful scientist who helps invent the next big gadget that will revolutionize the world? Or at least comes up with a reason for there being more light matter than dark matter—"

"Vice verse, there's far more dark matter than light matter."

"Right. That's what I meant." Courfeyrac draws a deep breath. "I'm not going to tell you not to go. I'm not that selfish, Combeferre."

"It's not selfish to tell me that you want me to stay with you." Combeferre's hand is clenched into a fist by his fork, his voice tight with suppressed emotion. "It's not selfish to say that I should weigh what I have here against what I _may_ find there."

"All right." Courfeyrac swallows, surprised to find his throat tight as Combeferre throws him an unexpected life line. "I would absolutely love it if we could stay together. But how can I tell you to choose between your passion and me?"

"Because you _are_ one of my passions." Combeferre speaks with a deep intensity. "You and the Amis and this country and a great many things other than my work."

"Things that you can keep with you, more or less." Courfeyrac smiles. "Communication between America and Europe is very easy now."

Combeferre rubs a hand across his face, his eyes closing.

Courfeyrac turns to Enjolras, but the tense, drawn look on Enjolras' face makes it clear that his friend has no idea how to salvage the situation, either.

And really, if he's looking to Enjolras for help on specific interpersonal interactions, Courfeyrac has fallen too far. "Will you come for a walk with me, Combeferre?"

Combeferre's eyes flicker to the food.

"You're clearly not in a mood to eat, and I think you and I need to have a very long talk about this." Courfeyrac stands and offers Combeferre his hand.

After a few moments Combeferre takes it, lips pressed tight, eyes still bright with worry.

Courfeyrac nods to Enjolras. "We'll be back in a little bit. Try not to set the kitchen on fire."

Enjolras' affronted glare is priceless. "It's fast food in little cardboard boxes."

"That's how you destroyed one of our microwaves, remember?"

"It is not my fault that someone left a fork in one of the boxes and I didn't realize it."

"Maybe not, but I can still tease you about it." Courfeyrac tucks Combeferre's arm under his and steers them toward the door. "See you soon, Enjolras."

"Enjoy your walk." Enjolras picks up his plate and heads toward his room.

Courfeyrac steers Combeferre toward the door, hoping that the two of them will be able to find a solution.

XXX

Combeferre allows Courfeyrac to guide them, studying the ground in front of him only well enough so that he can keep from running into something.

It's ridiculous, really. He should never have applied to somewhere he wasn't absolutely certain he wanted to go. But it had made Courfeyrac laugh, at the time, and he had been in continual contact with Frederic since his undergrad stint at CERN, and in all honestly it was probably Frederic who got him the offer and it's so _frustrating_.

So frustrating, that he can want so desperately to go to CERN and also so desperately to stay here, and find no easy middle ground. Clearing his throat, Combeferre glances at Courfeyrac. "How's the campaign coming along?"

"Oh, they're still busy marching back my comments on recognizing polyamorous relationships to something more palatable." Courfeyrac grins, looking as though he doesn't mind the extra work he's given his staff members. "It's currently driving my opponent absolutely mad that he can find no evidence I've ever engaged in polyamory despite my being a blatant homosexual and clear supporter of perversion."

"Then he doesn't know you very well." Combeferre actually finds himself smiling as he reaches out to take Courfeyrac's hand. "While I could see you in a polyamorous relationship, I think the worst you could be accused of is serial monogamy of the typical searching-for-the-right-one kind."

"Indeed. It's all about communication, after all, and so far all my relationships have been with people who wanted exclusivity with my body." Courfeyrac lifts their hands, gently kissing the back of Combeferre's. "And given the wonderful things you do with it, I won't complain."

"You knew how much trouble that comment was going to cause when you made it."

"I did." Courfeyrac shrugs. "I also knew that I couldn't agree that polyamory is something terrible to be legislated against and avoided and still look Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta in the eyes the next morning. And it's actually not that hard to salvage—I just have to say that I think stable families should be able to achieve tax benefits, that there should be some way of designating providers for children aside from who's on the marriage certificate or expensive adoption procedures, that those _not_ in relationships should have easy options to designate health care decisions rather than having to go through the confusion and expense of lawyers. Make it not about marriage or polyamory specifically, but about how the state unequally doles out privileges based on outmoded ways of considering relationships. These are old arguments that have been happening for decades."

"Usually not at the level of the state governorship." Combeferre squeezes Courfeyrac's hand.

"That's because politicians seem to be about twenty years behind the general populace with regards to sanity." Courfeyrac shrugs. "And I say this as a politician."

"A good one."

"I like to think so." Courfeyrac squeezes his hand once again. "But I've had the best of people to work with."

"I..." Combeferre shakes his head, giving a brief, dark chuckle. "I don't think I've ever been so conflicted about what to do. I adore you, Courfeyrac. I want to be with you forever."

He has to pause after saying those words, to let the images from _before_ , from lives that aren't _now_ , flash and flit. He will be with this man forever, they seem to say, his fate intimately intertwined with the fates of all those those who once called themselves the Friends of the ABC.

"I want to be with you, too." Courfeyrac hesitates, then shakes his head. "But I also can't in good conscience tell you not to go. I can't tether you here when I've been one of those pushing for you to focus as much on your schooling as you do on our politics. I can't look at you and wonder whether you would be happier over there."

"If I choose to stay, it will be because _I_ choose to stay." Combeferre puts as much firm determination into the words as he can. "There will be no guilt to lay at your feet."

"And it isn't this is the old days. It's not like the difference between Europe and America is insurmountable." Courfeyrac's voice is cheerful, though the cheer wobbles slightly as he seems to take in Combeferre's expression. "I would Skype you every day if you wanted. Change my schedule. Some politicians plan around golf; I would plan around a long-distance relationship in Europe."

"Really?" Combeferre chews at his bottom lip, considering. "I mean... the first six months would be a trial period anyway. If I end up hating it, I could always come back, and it wouldn't look _bad_ on my resume..."

"The election's over in three months." Courfeyrac smiles at him, an uncertain, lopsided, adorable expression that pulls at Combeferre's heart strings. "It could be a moot point anyway. If I lose, we could always let Feuilly take over as the face of the party. Or Enjolras. They're both very good."

"They are. Feuilly a bit better than Enjolras at not frightening people—not that Enjolras is frightening, and he usually has good points..." How has gone from panicking over a decision to insinuating that his best friend, a man _born_ for politics and people, would not make a good politician?

"I know." Courfeyrac's grin is more certain now. "There's a reason I've been the public face for a bit. Enjolras is fantastic at rousing people when they need to be and writing out our reasoning and firing up resistance when it's needed; I'm a bit less intimidating for the long-term, though, while still holding to the same ideals."

"You do a better job at kissing babies, that's true."

"Partly because I'm not afraid of them." Courfeyrac rests his head against Combeferre's shoulder. "No matter what you choose, we'll be all right. All of us. You. Me. The Amis. We've been through worse. Even just in this life, we've been through worse."

Riots. Jail cells. Sit-ins that became shoot-outs though the protestors had no weapons. It has been a tumultuous decade, but they are finally, maybe, hopefully urging things in the right direction. "You... really think it would be okay to not be here? To not be with Enjolras?"

"We'd make sure he continues to eat and sleep and other necessary human functions." Courfeyrac's arm slides around his waist, a comforting warmth. "And he is also capable of using Skype. The only technology that rejects him is that relating to food. Perhaps because he doesn't like eating. The food has decided that if he's going to go through life after life ignoring it, it's going to start ignoring him first."

Combeferre can't help but laugh, and somehow it makes the tight knot of uncertainty that the phone call created unwind slightly. "He just has different priorities."

"Everyone does." Courfeyrac's fingers tease lightly at Combeferre's side, until he squirms and protests. "And provided you remember the big picture, prioritizing scientific progress isn't a bad thing. Where would we be without the Internet, after all?"

"In a very different world." Combeferre smiles, looping his arm around Courfeyrac's shoulders and tickling him in turn. "All right, I'll think about it—think, no panic. And no matter what I choose, we'll be all right."

Courfeyrac pulls him in for a deep kiss. "No matter what, we'll be all right."

XXX

He promised he would be all right.

Combeferre reminds himself of that as he stumbles back to his room at five in the morning.

He promised Courfeyrac he would be all right, and he _will_ be, but it's so hard being on his own.

Four months have gone by since he moved to CERN, began frantically working, trying to get as much as he could done as quickly as he could. Only his Skype conversations with Enjolras and Courfeyrac reminded him to eat and sleep and otherwise take care of himself.

He had forgotten how easy it was to get lost in his work, to drown out what he needs physically in the pounding energy of chasing down a new idea.

He hasn't forgotten what his true purpose is, though. He hasn't forgotten that he has fought and been jailed for standing up for the rights of the people (fought and died, in dreams that are becoming more and more common the longer he stays here, the more French he speaks). He reads the papers that are scattered about CERN, the opinion pieces in French and English and a half dozen other languages, and he knows that there are other things he needs to be doing.

If he thought balancing work and health was difficult, balancing work, health, and political activism is impossible.

It would be easier if there were others here. It would be easier if he could find a group that he is comfortable with, as he is comfortable with the Amis, but finding such a group has proved difficult. He is too American; he is too progressive; he is too cutting in his rhetoric; he is too _everything_ and yet not enough of anything.

He isn't sleeping enough.

He isn't getting enough work done.

He won't be able to leave at the end of six months, not if things continue as they are, and he won't be able to stay, not so far away from everyone who has been his comfort and solace throughout his life. Though a computer screen is beautiful and brilliant and he loves seeing his friends that way, he needs their touch. He needs their voices calling him to dinner.

He needs them.

(He needs Courfeyrac.)

Shoving the door to his small apartment open, he blinks in bleary confusion at the figure sprawled out on the couch, unable to process what he is seeing.

"Combeferre?" The figure sits up hastily, hair sticking every which way, a bright, familiar grin on his face. "You're home! I've been waiting for hours. Do you know how annoying it is to catch a cab at two in the morning?"

"Cour... feyrac?" Combeferre finishes entering the apartment, allowing the door to close behind him. "But... you can't..."

"I can." Courfeyrac closes the distance between them, taking Combeferre's hands in his. "Feuilly is going to make a fantastic governor, I would say. And I... I realized that I want to be with you, more than anything else. And I can't build a particle accelerator or hadron collider or whatever it is you need in the back yard, but I _can_ get into politics anywhere so... here I am."

"I can't..." Combeferre swallows convulsively, blinking tears from his eyes. "You're really here?"

Courfeyrac's arms close around him. "I'm really here. And I'm really going to stay, provided you can help me find a job so they don't kick me out."

Combeferre laughs. "I think I can do that."

"Good." Courfeyrac's thumb runs over Combeferre's cheeks, wiping away tears Combeferre hadn't realized were falling. "Then, if you don't mind, I would like to request a kiss."

Courfeyrac doesn't have to ask twice.

They stumble backward, into the room, onto the couch, and all Combeferre can hear is Courfeyrac's voice, whispering over and over that everything will be all right.

And it is.

It isn't easy—there are ties that both of them miss terribly, to Enjolras but also to the other Amis. There are times when Combeferre feels guilty for forcing Courfeyrac to choose between him and their other friends... and times Courfeyrac seems to feel the same, to lash out at him for spending too much time and energy on his work.

But those times aren't the majority, and together, with the two of them helping each other find the right balance between work and play and politics, the world is a wondrous place.


	2. Epilogue/Omake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written because my beta-readers thought that given the field Combeferre was working in there should be a more sci-fi and less pragmatic ending to the story. Just something cute and short and funny as an alternate ending.

_Epilogue/Omake_

Enjolras sighs as he closes his laptop and stretches his neck.

"Bed time, Enjolras." He whispers the words as he glances at the clock, which blinks two in the morning at him. "If you don't sleep, you won't be able to do what needs to be done."

It isn't as much fun, telling himself what he knows needs to be said. He misses Combeferre's exasperated frustration, Courfeyrac's gentle teasing.

It has been six months since Courfeyrac left for Switzerland. He and Combeferre seem to have settled in well, and they communicate on an almost daily basis, trading bits of news and suggestions on how to attempt to steer public opinion the way they want it to go.

Enjolras is taking care of himself. It is a matter of pride, in a way, proving that he isn't dependent on his two friends, that he is capable of being an adult and watching out for himself.

(It helps that Feuilly and Joly and Grantaire have taken to calling him, inviting him over for food, generally checking on his well-being.)

He still misses his friends, feels as though a piece of him has been wrenched free and sent across the ocean.

A sigh escapes as he stands, stretching. He should get a glass of water and head to—

There is a crackle like far-away lightning, a shimmer in the air, and suddenly he is no longer alone in his room.

"Enjolras!" Courfeyrac's arms wrap around his neck before he can decide whether he's hallucinating or not. "Combeferre, it worked!"

"So it did." Combeferre's smile has a smug edge to it. "How's this for Star Trek, eh?"

"I... what..." Enjolras stares in dumbfounded amazement and rising joy at his two friends.

"Combeferre made a teleporter, and it works!" Courfeyrac crows out the words.

"I do believe this solves our problem even better than Skype, don't you?" Combeferre pulls Enjolras from Courfeyrac's arms, into a gentle hug. "Happy birthday, my friend. I hope you like it."

Enjolras just clings to his Combeferre, hugging him tightly, knowing that this is the best gift he will ever receive, no matter how many times they reincarnate.


End file.
